


Don’t Starve Drabbles

by Prawnperson



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, F/F, F/M, Family Relationships - Freeform, Fluff, Hair Pets, Hysteria, Love Letters, M/M, Occasional angst, Shanties, Sleep Deprivation, Spying, Suggestive Themes, Tags to be added, occasional gore, touch starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: A series of drabbles about DS/T. Mostly cute and happy, with lots of headcanons.(Any relevant gore or angst warnings are in the notes before a chapter rather than the tags)
Relationships: Charlie/Maxwell (Don't Starve), Genny/Winona (Don’t Starve), Walani/WX-78 (Don't Starve), Warly/Wolfgang (Don't Starve), Wes/Wigfrid (Don't Starve), Willow/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 105





	1. Visiting dad

“Heya, captain dad!”

Walani greets. She’s cheerful as always, slinging her rucksack off her back as Warly lays down a straw roll so they can sit on the rocky surface of the volcano without being burned. Woodlegs perks up visibly when he sees them coming, but he tries not to let this enthusiasm show. Instead, he crosses his arms, pretending to be examining the red cracks in the ground.

“S’ye finally turned up again?”

“Sorry we were gone so long. We were trying to find your second key!”

She taps the one golden key in the lock, proud grin on her face.

“We brought you some stuff to make up for it! Warly made you some cool food.”

“I’ve got some honey nuggets, some grilled coconut, and we did have quite a lot of jam until somebody got hungry on our way over.”

He shoots an accusing look at Walani, who immediately takes great interest in her boots, before taking out a small package from his rucksack and handing it to Woodlegs through the bars of his cage.

“‘N how’s the hunt goin’?”

“Alright...we’re having a little trouble with the big monster.”

“It’s very slippery, Monsieur jambes.”

As much as he’d like to pay attention, Woodlegs is too busy scarfing down cubes of charred coconut to pay either of the survivors in front of him much mind. He finishes them in record time, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Walani grimaces.

“You really that hungry, old man?”

“You’ll get indigestion!” 

“Stupid wazzocks...”

“Oh, oh, and we found this toy boat, and a ball and cup, and a plate with some numbers on it!”

“Woodlegs be not a child.”

Apparently not at all listening, she passes those too through the bars, until Woodlegs is surrounded by trinkets and tiny parcels of food. There are a few from their last visit just within reach on the floor of the volcano. An empty soda can, a few stray marbles, and a candle jammed into an old wine bottle. 

“‘Tis not like any plate ol’ Woodlegs has seen b’fore.”

“Cool, ain’t it? But I will be coming back for the ball and cup in a while. It’s too cool for you to get anyways.”

Woodlegs shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage, but can’t quite press down the grin on his face. Warly and Walani stare up at him happily.

“Well, s’alright, if y’insist on botherin’ me...”


	2. Hysterical and sleep deprived

Wilson’s laugh is loud. Willow has never heard someone laugh so loudly before without it being forced, but she can tell this is genuine from the tears in his eyes and his flushed red face, normally pale as ash.

And he’s laughing at his own joke.

“Wilson, you alright?”

She asks, slightly amused and slightly concerned, because the laughter has gone on just a little too long and he’s starting to look slightly deranged. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just...oh, Willow...”

“It was sort of funny.”

He wipes a few tears from his cheeks. He’s so hot that Willow can feel the heat radiating off him, as enticing as a fire.

“Wilson...when was the last time you slept?”

Ok, sure, it was a funny joke, but this is ridiculous. Wilson stares up at her quizzically, titling his head to the side and only highlighting the bags under his eyes more.

“About...two days ago?”

“Go to bed, Wilson.”

“But I have to guard our ite-“

She carefully runs her fingers through his bouncy hair, watching him shiver and shut his eyes under the delicate touch. He’s apparently too tired to even be horrified about such a thing, and Willow hopes he’ll be too tired to remember it in the morning. Still, this is easier than arguing with him about actually going to sleep, always overly eager to be the gentleman scientist and protector of their tiny two person camp.

“Just relax, Wildork, ok?”

But he’s already asleep, head pillowed on her stomach.


	3. Misery loves company

Wendy has been sad all day. She’s usually sad, of course, but today, it’s been much more noticeable. 

“Today is the anniversary of Abigail’s death.”

She says, quite suddenly, whenever she’s chopping up vegetables with a few of the other children, sitting on the patch of grass outside their tents. There’s a few moments of awkward silence, everyone awkwardly ceasing the preparations of their food, before Wendy bursts into tears and runs off into her tent, Abigail following behind her.

Walter and Wurt watch as Webber shuffles to his feet and goes to try and cheer her up. It’s clear that he’s denied entry, and after several attempts at starting a conversation, he drags his feet dejectedly back to the grass.

“She won’t let us in...she says...we don’t understand...”

All eight of his wide, glassy eyes begin to fill with tears, until he too runs away with a hand over his fanged mouth, presumably somewhere that doesn’t house two miserable little girls. Walter is about to speak up and break the awkward silence when Wurt makes a sniffly little sound.

“Hate when everyone sad, flort.”

She whispers. Walter scoots to the side based on the prediction that she’ll run away as well. He’s right, and he turns to watch her skitter into her tent like a frightened puppy. 

All of which leaves him sitting quite baffled, sitting in front of several chopping boards, listening to three varying pitches of sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walter literally has no idea what’s going on it all went so emo in like 45 seconds.


	4. Cold

“SHOVE OVER.”

Wilson blinks awake to something—no, someone—crawling into their tent. Willow remains sound asleep, and Webber only makes a little noise. 

“What are...WX-78?”

“IT IS COLD. I DEMAND WARMTH.”

When Wilson rolls over, his eyes meet WX’s, although they are not nearly as threatening and hollow as usual. Instead, the coal black orbs have been softened by sleep, clutching their beloved lying robot close to their chest, apparently too tired to even remember to hide it.

“Alright, well, Webber has a tummy ache, so just try not to jostle him too much, alright?”

“I DO WHAT I LIKE.”

They yawn, nuzzling into the fur roll beneath them. It can’t be more than a minute later that Wilson hears gentle clicks and whirrs, signifying they’re asleep. For some strange reason, he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed, even with three people snoring beside him.


	5. Writing circle

“It’s the whole point of a writing circle, my dears. You must experiment to see where you find your muse. Leave no genre unexplored.”

The rest of the adults in the circle sit, stunned, most of them staring down at the pieces of papyrus or scrappy notebooks in their hands as they try and get over what they just had read out to them. Maxwell seems to have temporarily shut down, and Wes is visibly flushed, even beneath the layers of white makeup. 

“Come along, we can’t spend the whole time focusing on my little contribution. Who wants to go next?”

The fire crackling is the only noise for a moment until Wigfrid furrows her eyebrows and lets out an indignant snort.

“Yöu töld us we cöuldn’t write smut!”

She cries, and Willow immediately bursts into a fit of giggles. Wilson turns an even deeper shade of red until he looks like he’ll set the log he’s sitting on ablaze. The little smile that forms on Wickerbottom’s face is soft and only a little bit teasing, hands clasped demurely in her lap.

“I never said that, dearie. I said you couldn’t write it well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wicker is such a great character because you KNOW camp grandma’s seen some shit in her time


	6. The name game

What’s your name?

Wes signs it up at Wigfrid, eyes blow wide, gazing up at her with one of the most devoted looks she’s ever seen in her life. It does something to her. Turns her heart to a puddle and leaves her feeling light and vulnerable in the best possible ways. She combs her fingers through his chopped black hair, watching the way he nuzzles against her bare stomach from his position of having his head pillowed in her lap.

“Wigfrid.”

She laughs, softly, but that’s not what he means and she knows it. He furrows his eyebrows, always so wonderfully expressive, and nudges his fingers against the small of her back in a decidedly determined way. He always seems to get what he wants, always seems to weaken her, somehow. 

Unreasonably flushed, Wigfrid leans down, whispering gently to Wes and giving the shell of his ear an absolutely minuscule kiss. When she pulls back, she gives Wes a tiny, unusually timid smile that he immediately meets with his own painted lips.


	7. Summer heat

“Wolfgang is hot!”

“Ugh, I know. It’s absolutely baking...”

Wolfgang and Warly trudge back to camp, both laden down with sacks full of gold and nitre, almost too heavy for even the strongman. The sun is beating down so heavily, and then Warly lets out an anguished little noise that immediately makes Wolfgang wonder if he’s simply dropped dead from heatstroke.

But instead, he can see him fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, his rucksack and vest already lying on the ground.

“I’m so sorry, but it’s simply too hot.”

He huffs, and it’s only then that Wolfgang really notices the little stray curls of hair clinging to his face, or the beads of sweat that linger on his neck, or the faint little line of muscle down his front as he peels off his shirt with an oddly breathy sigh, and he suddenly feels strangely guilty for looking.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“...Wolfgang is hot.”

He repeats, before clutching the straps of his rucksack harder and barrelling towards camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where’s all the flustered Wolfgang content? Where?!


	8. Letters

She misses Genny. She’s pretty sure she missed Genny even before he met her, so now, it’s worse. It’s an ache that settles deep in Winona’s chest, spreading quickly to her stomach and winding around her like she’s caught in a vice grip.

She deals with it in different ways. Some days, she tinkers, other days, she focuses on fixing things around camp.

Sometimes, she writes letters.

Winona is determined to get away from this place, one way or another. She’s certain they’re making tiny bits of progress, day by day, season by season, with everyone contributing something to their eventual escape. Until that day, she pockets the letters she so carefully pens to her beloved, waiting for the day when she’ll finally see her again and be able to hand them over to her in person, to let her know she was thinking about her every day she was away from her.

Every single day.


	9. Charlie

The smell of roses is everywhere. It’s always there in the darkness, so heavy and strong that it almost makes Maxwell feel like his lungs will be crushed. His heart pounds in his chest at the familiar scent, battering against his frail ribs, setting his whole body into overdrive. He can’t believe he was so stupid. Not even the children have ever made such a careless mistake since joining the other survivors. 

No light. An empty lantern. Just one too few strands of grass to make a torch.

He hears it, her subtle movement, and he is both terrified and thrilled. The mere thought of her sends a chill up his spine, knowing full well she has every right to slash her claws across his chest and leave him stone dead in the dirt. The gentle whispering that almost sounds like the rustle of a skirt also seems to set off some kind of butterfly farm in the pit of his stomach. The two feelings clash and war with one another, and no happy medium is met.

“Charlie...”

He breathes, suddenly, surprised by the way he sounds, awed and soft and almost like he’s about to cry. The swishing noises stop for a moment, and then he hears the delicate, rushing roar that signifies her attack.

Something cold touches his cheek. It’s a touch so soft, but he hasn’t felt any touch in years and years beyond Wigfrid begrudgingly helping him to his feet or Wendy resting her weary head on his shoulder. No, this is different, this is skin to skin contact. He surrenders to it, leaning into the all encompassing darkness, and the hand that caresses his face. Long, sharp nails brush ever so gently along the underside of his jaw, almost scratching in the way he used to love so.

It makes no sense. Why is she doing this?

“Charlie...”

He says it again, quieter.

And then, footsteps approached, accompanied by light. Maxwell’s eyes snap open as the handle of a torch is thrust into his hands. The touch retreats with a hiss, the darkness shying away from the fire.

“You forgot your fuel, silly!”

Webber grins up at him, clearly relieved to find him safe, before turning to begin to walk back to camp, safely equipped with his miner hat.

But for a moment, Maxwell is unable to move, rendered utterly incapable by the events that just transpired. He tentatively reaches his trembling hand up to the spot on his cheek that she touched, and when he lays his fingers against it, he finds it to be warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Charlie deffo still has some feelings for Maxwell deep down, and watching him gradually soften into William Carter with the help of the survivors really can’t be doing her any favours in terms of getting over him.


	10. Shanties

“Too,”

“Too,”

“Too-ooh.”

“Nice harmonies, matey!”

WX-78 leans forwards, elbows leant on a rock near the shoreline as they observe. They aren’t spying, no, merely observing their inferiors as they partake in their strange pastimes. Walani is sitting in the Sea Legs with Woodlegs, singing shanties with him.

She sounds nice, WX thinks, hating the notion as soon as it enters their head. It must be something to do with the way the sound reverberates or how it carries itself, perhaps due to her pitch, both higher and softer and so, so pretty. At least it doesn’t seem to extend to everyone. The old pirate fleshling sounds like someone’s put a catcoon in the crockpot.

“Haha! Is cute!”

Comes a sudden laugh, and WX-78 immediately falls from their position against the rock onto the ground. Wolfgang stares down at them, grinning like an idiot.

“Little robot listens to tiny surf woman sing! Like kitten crush, yes?”

WX-78 scowls, picking themselves up and shoving Wolfgang’s chest with all their force in a way that doesn’t move him at all. 

“SHUT UP, MEATLING.”

They huff, storming off, not aware of the little giggle this elicits from Walani all the way over on the Sea Legs. 

She hopes they find another spot to watch from.


	11. Fishing trips

The poor lad is tired. Of course he would be, a good day’s worth of fishing may be relaxing, but it can always take a lot out of you, especially when you always have to be somewhat on the lookout for danger. Woodlegs sighs, running a hand across the bristly fur atop Webber’s head.

It’s bad to get attached, he knows, because it always leads to misery. The problem is, it seemed almost impossible to keep Webber from worming his way into everything, making everything brighter and happier just by being there.

The bucket of fish they’ve collected looks like it should probably be fine left out of the icebox until tomorrow. He detests the land and he certainly doesn’t want to make two trips for something as trivial as a bucket of food. He has more important cargo.

Webber is unusually light for his age, possibly due in part to the fact that no matter what he ate now, it would never quite make up for the times before he met the others when he was scrounging for food in the bushes. He’s hardly any extra weight at all as Woodlegs slings him up so that he’s riding piggyback style on his back. He tightens his arms very sleepily before nodding off again.

Normally, Woodlegs would make loud noises to imitate a battleship that never fail to make the boy shriek with laughter, but instead, he walks peacefully through the forest, beneath the blue full moon, before he reaches the camp. He goes in, and lays Webber down against his bedroll as carefully as he can, thankful for the absence of prying eyes.

“We finished?”

He mumbles, scratchy voice thick with sleep, and Woodlegs smiles a very small smile and nods.

“Aye, all done. Ye did a grand job t’day, lad.”

“Thanks...we had fun..night, Woo’legs...”

“G’night, lad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bias for the SW characters is shockingly apparent 
> 
> But for real, Webber sees Woodlegs as a grandfather figure, no doubt.


	12. Wake up call

With the lighting of the lantern, Willow awakes. She can feel subtle movements against her back, smell the faint aroma of the lightbulb fuel fizzling and burning with a delicious sort of heady sweetness, like a bow leaves smell after it rains, only burning.

“Willow, my darling...”

Wilson whispers, kissing the join of her neck delicately. He takes such great care of her, always. It makes Willow’s heart leap. Surely nobody deserves such tender treatment, least of all her. Least of all from Wilson.

She swallows.

“Yeah?”

“I love you so much. That’s all. I simply had to tell you.”

She rolls over to face him in the diminishing light, admiring his adorable sleepy smile, the way his normally immaculate yet crazy hair now has a few stray curls loose. They frame his face in the cutest manner. She kisses the tip of his nose, wrapping her arms around his soft middle.

“I love you too, Wils.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this is too soft


	13. This cool bug I found

Walter glances over at the bubbling crockpot some distance away from the camp. He’s so hungry, but all the adults who are good at time management are still out doing things, so he and a few others have been left in the care of WX-78, who has the culinary skills of a rock.

“That might take a while.”

He mumbles, twirling a pattern onto the grass with the toe of his shoe. Suddenly, his face lights up, and he swings off his backpack to reach for the jar inside with the holes poked in the top.

“Wanna see this cool bug I found in the meantime?”

Webber instantly perks up at that, crawling rapidly to Walter’s side and peering into the jar.

“We do wanna!”

“WHAT’S THIS ABOUT A BUG?”

Walter proudly holds the beetle in a jar up to the light. It’s lavender coloured wings glitter with an iridescent sheen, even more fascinating in the light of dusk.

“Woah!”

“WOAH!”

“Cool, right?”

By the time they’re finished admiring the bug, the crockpot has nearly boiled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don’t think Walter is any older than ten, since it’s seems more of a young kid trait to constantly talk about how responsible and mature you are, especially if there are cool kids *cough cough Wendy and Abigail* around that you want to impress.


	14. Keep you safe

“Here.”

Wendy shivers involuntarily whenever she feels two small claws gently smear something cold against her neck. When she looks down, she can see it’s Wurt, who takes advantage of her confusion to do the same again on the other side of her neck. When Wendy reaches up, she can feel two rapidly drying strokes of thick purple mud. Presumably, it’s been mirrored on her left side as well.

“What was that for?”

She asks, trying not to sound as put out as usual, if only because Abigail is giving her a very pointed look. She knows she has to be nice to Wurt. Abby has promised she won’t get jealous. 

“For defensive mech-and-isms!”

Wurt grins proudly up at her. Wendy tilts her head.

“False scales. Tricks pig-folk and other meanies, florp. Makes them think you is breathing from there!” 

As if to demonstrate, Wurt delicately lifts the small frill of webbing that sits over her shoulders. When Wendy peers beneath it, she can see the little pale yellow slits of her gills. 

“Won’t hurt real ones now. Keep you safe, flort.”

Abigail makes that face again. Wendy sighs, gentle and high, like the wind in the late autumn.

“Thank you, Wurt. I shan’t need to fear with you around.”


	15. Coming out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wholesome coming out ahead

“I’m gay.”

Warly blurts, with as much grace and poise as moleworm that’s just been hit with a hammer. His fingers tense and curl into fists in his lap, nausea welling up in his throat, disbelieving that after a quarter of an hour of beating about the bush, he’s finally managed to blurt it out. He doesn’t know how they’re going to react.

And then he wonders if they’ve heard, because the three of them seem incredibly calm, unmoving, until Walani places a gentle hand on his knee and smiles at him.

“That’s cool, man. I’m glad you could tell us.”

“It-it is? I mean, you are?”

She nods, not a hint of disgust or confusion or mockery on her face. 

“Yeah, of course! I mean, I like girls and boys and everyone else, so, glass houses, y’know?”

Warly’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

“Woodlegs, you mind?”

“Hm?”

“About Warly? 

“‘Tis grand, I think. Proud of the lad. Is he still makin’ dinner?”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I mean, certainly, but...aren’t you-“

Wilbur crawls in between him and Walani then, shrieking out in a way that’s much more tender than usual. 

“We love you, silly.”

“Aye, that we do.”

“That’s not gonna change no matter what. Unless you don’t make us dinner. I’m really hungry, Warls.”

A grin creeps across Warly’s face, reaching across to pull Walani into a hug so tight it could bruise. She returns it with just as much enthusiasm. Warly’s voice goes quiet and wavery. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Woodlegs’ expression softens at the sight for a fraction of a second. The fraction of a second quickly passes. 

“This be nice, but fer the love of all that’s sacred, are we gettin’ food some time this year?!”


	16. Talk to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Age HC that WX-78 was built 3 years ago at the time this is set but they have the mental age of a 17 year old, because robots age in groups of key milestone ages. Like Bender in Futurama! (Too much explanation for one drabble? Absolutely!)

“I know that it’s scary for you.”

Winona does know. She’s known WX-78 for a little longer than the others have, but even such a slight advantage has given her an edge, she feels. She doesn’t understand why the others find them so hard to read. They can be pretty transparent when they want to be. Or when they don’t want to be.

“SHUT UP. I FEAR LITTLE AND NOTHING THAT IS INCONSEQUENTIAL.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t inconsequential. It’s way consequential.” 

They kick at the base of the catapult, suddenly very interested in the ground.

“Emotions are...tricky.”

“AND DISGUSTING, HENCE WHY I DO NOT HAVE THEM.”

“But you seem to be developin’ them, hm?”

Winona places a gloved hand on their shoulder which they quickly shrug off, still not meeting her eyes, but she knows they’re listening to her.

“You’re eatin’ all those gears, and your body’s changing, and everything inside you is trying to catch up.”

This sounds an awful lot like a puberty talk. Oh, no, she’s not accidentally stumbled into a puberty talk, has she? She runs over the mental checklist of points she thinks she’ll be able to bring up before WX-78 gets so affronted they run away. Changing bodies. Emotions. Mood swings. Shit, it’s totally a puberty talk.

“DOES IT...DOES IT DISSIPATE? I MEAN, SAY I WERE EXPERIENCING SUCH HORRID THINGS, WOULD THEY GO?”

“Eventually.”

“DO THEY—WOULD THEY MAKE ME ABNORMAL?” 

She smiles at them.

“They might make you feel that way, but no. Trust me, everything’s going to work out ok, and if you ever feel like it won’t, you can always talk to me about it.”

As expected, WX-78 begins to mumble about what utter nonsense she’s talking, how foolish she is, things along those lines, but she does pick up something that sounds almost like a word of thanks before they let out a hiss of steam and disappear into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HC that consuming gears does actually change some of the chemicals aka robot hormones in WX’s internal mechanisms over a spread out time period in order to advance their defences to a more resilient level, meaning they’re basically going through a slightly more metallic version of puberty. Winona, being the good big sister that she is, wants to help them out a little, even if they are a stinker.


	17. Peaceful

The survivors around the fire pit are all chatting happily. It masks the dull noise of something moving in the early evening darkness, providing a false sense of rightness, as if they are safe within this wall of trees. Chester pants at Wilson’s feet, Woby occasionally letting out a yip and running in circles around the big pumpkin of a creature.

The kids are all gone to bed, Wolfgang nodding off with his head propped in his hands. The calmness of it sets Wilson’s nerves at ease for once. He wraps an arm around Willow’s shoulder, enjoying how warm she feels pressed against him. 

“Did you get enough trees chopped, Woodie?”

He asks, forgetting his formalities with the ease that comes after such a nice evening. 

“Luce and I got plenty. Should be more than enough for the winter, eh?”

Wilson nods, letting Willow free from his embrace to throw another log onto the fire. She quickly snuggles back up to him. Wigfrid hums absently.

“And you, WX, how about those marble beans?”

No response. The robot stares unresponsively at a rock.

“WX-78?”

“BREASTS.”

The second they say it, they give off a clicking noise. Wilson can feel Willow stiffen and shake at his side in an attempt to hold back laughter. Wickerbottom blinks at them over her glasses. Woodie looks as if he’s about to giggle. WX looks as if they’re about to die.

“Yes, well. Wigfrid, are you away to the pig village tomorrow, or is that the day after?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson has seen so much shit at this point he just doesn’t care.


	18. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild gore ahead!

Blood seeps through Wendy’s shirt. She can make out the deep red colour it dyes her palms when she pulls them away from the wound, vision blurring faster than she’d like it to. No amount of honey or jellybeans or blue spotted mushrooms will heal her from the brink of death now. 

Webber is at her side in an instant, both of them ignoring the distant cries and shouts of the adults as they rage against both the deerclops and the large pack of hounds circling them. Abigail’s flower lays curled up by her side.

Without thinking about it, Wendy turns her face to half-hide herself in the thick mane of fur that sits around Webber’s neck. She breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of smoke and something bitter. Webber cradles her, assuring her that she’ll be alright soon, that she can come back and play just as soon as she revives. She’ll be alright. She’ll be fine.

Even though Wendy does not and has not ever craved such reassurances, she finds them oddly comforting as everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These kids do not belong here :(


	19. Pitchfork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some very brief and very vague references to child abuse

As unused as she is to farming, Wigfrid feels as though she’s done an excellent job. The seeds are now lined up in neat rows and, when she looks around to find her companions have all made an equally nice looking patch of crops, she considers asking Wilson to let the hunting party do things like this more often. 

“A fine victöry över the cröps!”

She cries, throwing her pitchfork down.

Only, the second she does, she notices Wolfgang flinch away from her, shoulders drawn up around his head, eyes scrunched shut. The noise it had made had been muffled by the dirt, not very loud at all. She tilts her head to the side.

“Are yöu feeling alright?”

Wigfrid can clearly tell that he isn’t, he’s shaking all over and his hands are curled into fists, but he still nods his head. 

So Wigfrid picks up the pitchfork, walks very carefully back around the camp to place it with the other tools, and resolves herself to ask a few questions the next hunting trip.


	20. Smoke

“Come here, my love.”

Willow soothes. Her hands trace comforting patterns along Wilson’s soft sides, kisses collecting on the top of his head as he nuzzles into her neck. He’s always been very clingy, Willow attributes it to spending so many years starved of affection, but he seems to be even more cuddly tonight. She has no objections to any of this at all.

“You’re so wriggly...what’s up with you?”

“Hmmm...you smell so lovely tonight...so like you.”

Experimentally—he must be rubbing off on her—Willow breathes in deeply and finds that their whole tent is suffused with the smell of burnt wood and smoke. Wilson takes another deep sniff of her pigtails, grinning an adorable, goofy grin.

“Mmmm. So good...”

The fond laugh Willow lets out can be heard across half the Constant.


	21. Gears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cannibalism maybe???

WX-78 pulls the coil of wires from the bishop’s torso with a frantic, manic, grating noise rising out of their throat. The area around them is illuminated different shades of blood res, mixing with the sickly yellow hue of their lantern. When they expose a neat set of gears, they yank one free of its mount. 

When they rub their finger and thumb together , they can feel an oily, greasy kind of grit. 

But they’re so desperate for a bit of clarity, so eager to stop the burning pain in their arm that they eat it, prying another one out as they do so and following the pattern again and again, ripping out different wires and rivets as they see fit. 

Eventually, the grey haze clears from about them, and it dawns on them that they’re sitting on top of a corpse.


End file.
